


Spilled Ink

by Pistol



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:03:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22041196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pistol/pseuds/Pistol
Summary: There's something that hides in the corner of Derek's eyes, tucked so deep inside the shadows that no matter how hard he tries he can't ever catch even a glimpse of it.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 8
Kudos: 77





	Spilled Ink

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to the very groovy verstehen for being my beta! <3
> 
> (All remaining mistakes are mine, not hers~)

There's something that hides in the corner of Derek's eyes, tucked so deep inside the shadows that no matter how hard he tries he can't ever catch even a glimpse of it. Next to him, Stiles pushes himself up on his elbows to peer into the shadow Derek has been studying for the better part of a half-hour. 

Stiles cocks his head, his breath is ghosting over Derek's ear. "What are we looking at?"

Derek does his best to smile. “Nothing,” he says hoping if he tries hard enough it will become the truth. 

Stiles doesn’t push, simply raises an eyebrow before reaching over Derek to turn off his bedside lamp. There's a _click_ and then the shadow behind their dresser expands to blanket the whole room. Whatever it is Derek still can't see it but he thinks he can feel it looming. 

"I thought I saw something," Derek admits as he turns on his side to curl into Stiles.

"Was it a spider? Because I swear to god, I will bug-bomb this entire house if one more-"

Derek silences Stiles, finding his lips in the dark with an ease born from years of practice and shared beds. Stiles' breath comes quickly, his fingers latching on to Derek like he's afraid their kisses will stop if he gives Derek a chance to escape.

"No spiders," Derek promises in between kisses.

Stiles' lips curl up, forcing Derek's lips to follow or get left behind. He follows because he'll follow Stiles anywhere.

"You'd protect me if there was a spider, right?" Stiles teases.

"With my life," the words come out too heavy, and Derek can feels Stiles' smile falter under the weight of them. For a moment, he thinks of making it sound like a joke but then Stiles is moving. He's pulling Derek forward and pressing his teeth to the skin on Derek's jaw like an admonishment that has been mixed with Stiles' unique brand of too sharp affection.

Stiles for all he talks and talks never says anything about love. It used to bother Derek, back when Stiles was still in school and Derek was risking more than just his heart over a seventeen-year-old who would only ever crack jokes about his feelings for Derek. Stiles, who was an expert at distracting Derek with angry bites and frantic touches whenever he had tried to ask how or why they kept ending up pressed together in the darkest, loneliest corners of the town.

Stiles likes to say that his words are his only defense, but in truth, Stiles' words have always been more weapons than armor. His silver tongue is merely decorative plating over the razor-sharp edges that come out whenever Stiles is too bored or absentminded to remember that he should play nicely with others. Despite his occasional challenges with empathy and social graces Stiles rarely, if ever, uses those tools on Derek. Instead, he made his own language of bites, kisses, and nails run over Derek's scalp to tell him the truths in his heart. 

In the dark, when Stiles' hands and teeth are tugging at Derek's skin it's easy enough to forget the things that are lurking in the shadows.

+

Sometimes Derek thinks he'll wake up one day to find every inch of Stiles' skin covered in ink. 

"You know I like to take my work home with me," Stiles jokes when he looks up and catches Derek observing the new addition to his skin. Stiles spits in the sink, setting his toothbrush back in the holder next to Derek's before smiling at him in the mirror.

"It looks like it's already healed," Derek observes. He'd run his hands and eyes over every square inch of Stiles' skin yesterday, traced the lines of the giant rowan tree on Stiles’ back with his tongue, but he doesn't remember encountering the raven that's sitting on a branch just over Stiles' shoulder blade. The bird, like all Stiles' tattoos looks like it's alive, looks ready to fly off pale skin and into reality at a moment’s notice. 

"Deaton did it this morning," Stiles is still smiling, but his eyes are full of more shadows Derek can never pin down.

Tattoos don't heal in the span of ten hours, but Derek isn't ready to point that out just yet. 

+

Stiles got his first tattoo the day after he graduated from high school. Derek remembers because he was there, sitting on a stool next to Stiles as Deaton's needle had danced and buzzed over Stiles' arm. Derek had been as close to Stiles as he could be without raising any suspicion, an art they had perfected long before that moment.

"Does it hurt?" He'd asked, remembering a stinging bite that accompanied the birth of his triskelion.

Stiles had turned, watching Derek with tired eyes. "Here? No. Nothing hurts."

+

When Stiles had first started his apprenticeship with Deaton it seemed natural. After all, Stiles spent most of his spare time walking into the shop with money and walking out hours later with his latest drawings freshly inked into skin. By the time Stiles had earned his own chair and his place in the shop's flash book Derek had earned his degree.

"A history major and a tattoo artist," Laura had toasted them at Derek's post-graduation party, "the two of you are _clearly_ making great life choices."

+

When Stiles' dad had his second heart attack they ended up spending all day in the hospital, Stiles' nails digging into Derek's skin until they drew blood. Derek didn't flinch, didn't pull his hand away, and for the first time Derek can remember he did the talking for Stiles. 

When the doctors came Stiles had just stood there, looking like a ghost under the hospital's fluorescent lights and Derek knows that Stiles hadn't heard a single word the doctor had told them. It's okay though because Derek took careful notes on his phone for when Stiles was ready to hear what the doctors had to say.

The next day, Stiles came home with the outline of a tree stretching down his back. There were no leaves then, only jagged branches that stretched and creeped over Stiles' shoulders, neck, and sides like skeletal hands. Derek didn't say anything, even back then he could recognize an unfinished piece when he saw it and he knew all too well about how Stiles felt about unfinished things.

"I love you," Derek reminded Stiles as he traced the already healed lines of the Rowan tree, "your dad's gonna be fine."

Stiles left teeth marks on Derek that night, marks that were faintly bruised in the morning. Derek did his best to ignore how his own marks disappeared in-between him brushing his teeth and toweling off from the shower.

+

The tree-filled in with shades of brown that Derek could never give names too until there was nothing left for Stiles to do but add new designs to the pale blank skin around the tree. The additions that start to appear are never fresh, never scabbed, and brought with them only more questions Derek can’t manage to ask.

+

"What's next?"

Stiles twists in the mirror to observe the final touches Deaton had recently added to the roots that crawl over his hips. "I don't know," he says meeting Derek's eyes in the mirror, "what do you think is coming next?"

Derek's head hurts, he’s learned long ago that trying to predict Stiles' next move is like trying to catch a falling star.

"Come to bed," he begs instead. 

Stiles twists his body once more in the mirror, peering at the tree before following Derek to bed. In his sleep Stiles shakes and sweats through the sheets. Derek doesn’t try to wake him. He’s had enough experience to know that no matter how hot he burns or how hard he shakes Stiles won’t open his eyes until the sun is up.

It’s another little thing Derek knows better than to ask about.

\+ 

Lydia drops off a book for Derek at work. 

"I saw it and thought of you," she says breezily as she drops a giant tome onto his desk. _Lupus in Fabula_ the worn cover boasts. Derek knows without seeing a receipt that it probably costs more than the couch sitting in his living room.

"I don't study Latin and you don't like me," he points out because it seems like something worth mentioning.

Lydia gives Derek a steady look, raising one perfectly groomed eyebrow at him in condescension before turning and walking away. The click of her heels echo long after she's gone.

Derek shoves the book into his desk, closing the drawer harder than he needs too as the shadows in his office act up more than usual.

+

Pale blue flowers start to show up underneath the tree on Stiles' back. More and more of Stiles' skin is steadily being covered in a design that feels just as strange and confusing as the book Lydia gave Derek.

"Sometimes I wish you would talk to me," Derek blurts out over dinner.

Stiles pauses chewing, giving Derek a considering look before continuing to chew. "You do realize you just interrupted me to say that, right?"

Derek hadn't, but he doesn't say as much. Lately, he hasn't always been able to hear the words that come out of Stiles' mouth. There's booming silence that comes out of Stiles' moving lips from time to time, his gesticulating hands the only guides to conversations Derek can't hear.

+

"I had a dream," Stiles whispers, shaking Derek's shoulder until he blinks his eyes open, "there was a wolf in the woods and it kept trying to give me a poisoned apple."

It's late, much too late to make sense of whatever has caught Stiles' attention at - oh _god,_ it's 3AM. "You're mixing up your fairy tales," Derek tells him as he blinks the sleep out of his eyes.

Stiles laughs, the sound coming out all wrong in the dark of their room.

+

There's a wolf hiding behind the tree on Stiles' back. It has eyes that were carefully shaded in with a deep red that somehow manage to glow. The blue flowers in the grass are stretching up to reach towards the wolf, one plant successfully wrapped around the wolf's leg.

"Is this the wolf from your dream?" Derek hears himself ask.

Stiles turns, staring at Derek in a way that makes Derek itch to run, to flee. Derek looks away first, for some reason he thinks he feels two pairs of eyes on his back when he leaves.

+

Derek ends up pulling out Lydia's book the next day. At the time it seems like a better way to spend his lunch than speed walking from his office to the Thai place down the street and having enough time to actually eat his food before his lunch is over. Derek spends his whole lunch break flipping through blank pages randomly peppered with familiar designs. They're designs Derek's familiar with, designs intricately hidden in the art that he's watched bloom across Stiles' skin over the years.

After work he drives to Lydia's penthouse on autopilot.

"What's the meaning of this?" He asks as soon as her door opens.

She looks from the book to Derek before sighing heavily. "What a silly question, Derek. _Everything_ has meaning."

Derek grits his teeth, "Then explain it to me."

Lydia tosses her hair over her shoulder, a pitying expression on her face, "Derek, _we_ can't do everything for you. You have to help yourself."

"Who's _we?_"

"You've stumbled upon what amounts to an existential question these days," Lydia says with a shrug. 

Derek walks away before Lydia has time to close her door in his face.

"He can't keep this up much longer," Lydia calls after him in a venomous tone. "You have enough blood on your hands already, Derek. Don't add his too."

+

At Deaton's shop Derek finds Stiles and Deaton bent over a Go board. The shop is empty - too empty. There are no chairs for customers, supplys, or even counters - only two recliners, a table, and a Go board.

"Stiles-"

"Not now," Stiles says without bothering to look up from the pieces on the board, "busy."

Derek opens his mouth to yell, maybe demand or scream for Stiles' attention but he stops when he notices the board. Deaton glances up, smiling at Derek as he lays a white stone on the edge of a cluster of black. 

"You're evil, you know that right?" Stiles whines at Deaton. "What kind of sadist spends the whole game blocking?"

"The patient kind," Deaton assures Stiles, still watching Derek. "Derek, do you play Go?"

"You're not playing Go," Derek looks down at the board to where the black stones have formed what looks like a wolf. A wolf with red eyes made from two glowing red stones. "Go only has two colors. There's no red."

Deaton frowns down at the board, "I suppose you're correct, then. What do you think we're playing then?"

Derek backs away towards the front door, unable to look over to where he knows Stiles is watching him, "I don't know, but it's not a game I want to play."

"You don't always have a choice," Stiles says, "sometimes the game chooses to play you."

"It … _games_ don't work that way. You don't _have_ to play them."

"Sometimes you do," Deaton interjects calmly.

Stiles nods in agreement, an unhappy smirk pulling at his lips. "Sometimes, the game is a _gift_."

Derek turns, running out the door unwilling to be trapped in the store anymore. Outside the wind whips at his coat, screeching in his ears while his car is nowhere to be seen. Behind Derek he hears the chime of the door as it opens.

"Derek!" Stiles screams into the wind, "You know where I'll be when you're ready!"

Derek ignores him, taking off instead for the shadowed woods behind the store on an impulse he doesn't understand.

+

Derek runs until the wind stops screaming, when it's finally silent Derek finds himself standing in the driveway of his childhood house. There are lights on inside, and the shutters have been painted a garish red recently enough that the paint is still lazily dripping down the side of house. For a second there's another image superimposed over it, it's the same house but this one is burning. He blinks and the fire is gone leaving only a bad paint job and a sense of unease.

"Your father insisted he knew what he was doing," calls a familiar voice from behind Derek, "I _told_ him to call in someone who actually knew what they were doing, but you know how he is."

Derek closes his eyes, fists balled at his side so tight that it burns.

"Honey?" His mom asks softly, there's an edge of worry in her voice. "Are you okay? Is something wrong - is Stiles-"

"Stiles' is fine," it comes out too harsh, to angry, and Derek immediately feels to the urge to apologize but he can't. He knows it's just his mom being herself, but he also knows that can't ignore the nagging feeling that he's been pushing down for so long. "I have to go, Mom," he says, unable to turn and face her.

There's a heavy silence, then a soft sigh, "I'll always be here for you if you need me."

Derek isn't sure why, but he feels his eyes tear up as he leaves, careful to avoid looking in her direction.

+

Stiles is stretched out, feigning sleep on their bed when Derek finally makes his way back to their place.

"I have questions, but I'm not sure what they are," Derek admits.

Stiles doesn't open his eyes as Derek collapses onto the bed next to him, but he scoots over, making space for Derek before running a hand absently through Derek's hair. It's soothing, familiar, something Stiles has done forever - and also something alien and _wrong, wrong, wrong._

"Don't worry so much, there's no pressure to get it right," Stiles tells him, and Derek knows it's a lie. Next to him Stiles' skin is giving off heat like a mini sun, one Derek is scared will burn him up and leave nothing behind.

In the silence between them Derek thinks on his life, thinks on Stiles. "Are you Stiles?"

Stiles' nails scratch gently on Derek's scalp in approval, "As much as anyone can be themselves, sure."

"Are you the Stiles _I_ know?"

Stiles laughs, short and heartbreaking, and that's answer enough.

"This isn't right, is it?" The moment the question is out of Derek's mouth, he wishes he could take it back.

"No, no it's not."

"I don't know what's wrong," Derek presses up into Stiles' touch, "but I'm worried that maybe everything is."

"Everything, huh? Isn't that a little dramatic?"

Derek watches the shadows of their room, and knows without a doubt that he's not wrong about it. "What's going on?"

"Bad things," Stiles admits, "but it'll be okay. Well, as okay as things can be in the real world."

"Because this isn't the real world," he surmises, "because none of this is real." The fingers in Derek's hair tighten almost painfully. 

Stiles nods. "_Ding, ding, ding,_ give the wolf a prize," his voice is hollow, weary. 

Around them, the room starts to fade away, the pictures on their walls thinning into nothing before the walls join them. Derek watches in detached fascination.

"What's happening?"

"Do you know what a djinn is?"

"No," Derek doesn't remember, but his headache comes back just as the chest of drawers next to them fades away.

"Well, you'll know what one is when you wake up," Stiles says with a lopsided smile that doesn't hide the sadness in his eyes. 

Derek has more questions to ask, but before he can Stiles fades away into nothing leaving only residual heat in the spot he once occupied.

+

The memories hit like a freight train, stealing the breath and fight from Derek the moment he opens his eyes. Around him is a sea of familiar faces, faces that Derek has two sets of memories for. On the far side of the room Stiles is being held upright between Scott and Allison, his face pale and pained. On his skin Derek can see hints of familiar designs, freshly done cruder than he remembered. Stiles' whole body is smeared with hints blood and ink that weren't wiped away carefully enough.

"Welcome back," Stiles says in a cracked voice. His pupils are too big and even from where Derek lays on the metal table he can feel the heat Stiles is giving off, can smell the sickness. 

+

"The tattoos are done with djinn venom and wolfsbane," Deaton explains as he and Scott gently clean Stiles up on the exam table next to Derek. "Wolfsbane isn't only poisonous to just wolves, you know."

"Don't worry," Lydia tells Derek with a softer look than he's used to from her. "You figured it out quickly enough it won't do much if any permanent damage to him." 

Derek briefly closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of the chemicals they're using to clean up Stiles and tries not to ask what would happen if he hadn't caught on.

"The raven," Deaton says motioning to the raven in Stiles' tree as he gently runs a damp cloth over the bid, "allowed Stiles to see through his false self's eyes. The tree rooted him into the dream, allowed him to interact with the world there. The moon allowed him control aspects of the dream, to bend small pieces to his will." He smiles over at Derek and it feels like an apology, "The wolf was meaningless but Stiles thought it might jumpstart your memories."

Derek nods, "Lydia-"

"Yes, Ms. Martin and myself were also with you," Deaton acknowledges, rolling up his sleeve to reveal his own freshly inked raven. "It wasn't easy. Your subconscious fought viciously anytime we tried to enter."

Derek stays silent as he watches Stiles' breathing in what he hopes is a dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Was previously posted, then taken down. Now it's back up. Beware the errors and typos, I suspect the files I found on my old hard drive are the pre-beta versions.  
Please don't steal any of my silly stories and change some names around and then try to sell them as books on Amazon or I'm gonna have to take everything down again.


End file.
